A Hundred Percent
by beesandjam13
Summary: Sherlock gets a little nervous before his wedding. Lestrade and Mycroft know what will help him calm down.


_So this little drabble thing was intended lokiloverson (tumblr) who asked me to write about Sherlock and John's wedding and Sherlock being all nervous and deducing the hell out of everything. Mycroft and Lestrade get fairly pissed so they grab John to talk some sense into him." I had the song A Thousand Years on constant while writing this. _

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"…And I can tell from your left thumb that you just had a domestic with your wife—it twitches just slightly. Your hair was a major issue this morning before arriving here. Was it because you didn't have time to shower or the fact that you'd known my brother would be coming? Oh, right. You ran out of product just before dashing through the door."

Sherlock peered upwards at Lestrade. His beady blue eyes squinted back at him. He was clearly frustrated, but due to the certain circumstances he didn't say a word. The Detective Inspector knew Sherlock was rambling deductions and the likings to keep his mind off one thing in particular.

Sherlock Holmes, the great and everlasting Consulting Detective, was getting married. To an army doctor.

Lestrade forced a small smile onto his thin lips, passed his drink to his other hand, and inhaled. He then said, "I'll pick some up when I get the chance, mind you."

"Ah," Sherlock breathed, "so I was right."

Lestrade raised his brows and snickered quietly. If only Sherlock knew how much the he was trying not to asphyxiate him right then and there. "You always seem to be," he replied.

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room furiously. His hands began fumbling as he talked. "Where's my brother?"

"Taking a call outside."

At that moment precisely Mycroft walked inside, pocketing his mobile as he did. "Apologies," he said, "I was needed."

"Saving London from a terrorist attack can wait, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed as he brought his knees up to his chest and threaded his arms around them. Mycroft took to twitching his nose in disgust. Sherlock only smirked in response.

"Behave, dear brother. It is your wedding day. No need to be so cruel."

"You're in the room. Clearly there is," Sherlock replied. He paused, looked down at his hand, and then fidgeted with his tie. "Why do I have to wear this thing any way? There's no logic in it whatsoever. It's a piece of fabric. There's no use in it at all, why should I bother?"

"John requested you'd wear it," said Lestrade before taking a drag from his alcohol. The Detective Inspector slid his glance over to Mycroft and the older Holmes grimaced. They both stepped out of the room for a moment. Only Mycroft returned.

Sherlock's head was propped up on his knees while he spoke. He mumbled something inaudible into the fabric of his trousers.

Mycroft twisted his lips and said, "Thirteen again, are we?"

"Sod off" was Sherlock's response.

The two brothers stared each other down for good amount of time before Detective Inspector returned with something of value.

"Greg says you're off your head," said John, striding into the room with a big, foolish grin on his lips, "but apparently they haven't lived with you before."

From the corner of the room, Mycroft let a large exhale out of his nostrils.

John was wearing a tuxedo similar to Sherlock's. With his satin vest, matching tie, and a boutonniere with a red rose. Sherlock's was white. The doctor's blue eyes were alive with a steady flow of energy, his face as a whole was gleaming with warmth and respect. His eyes even crinkled at the corners when he smiled at Sherlock after he'd given Mycroft a stern look.

"And yet you trust their judgments," replied the detective. He stood up, an airy smirk tugging only half of his lips back.

John stepped forward so he could lead Sherlock by the elbow to a more secluded area. Once there, he remained fairly intimate with his fiancé and chuckled before saying, "I trust that you're nervous and, as your doctor, know you shouldn't be."

Sherlock gazed down. His expression previewed a brilliant flash of vulnerability before his mask of indifference settled back home. "Actually," he began, "it's very logical to be nervous at this time. The human brain often reflects not only major life events but also common every—"

"I know. I know, you git," John responded as his hand traveled up to Sherlock's neck. His thumb brushed at Sherlock's jaw soothingly. "There's nothing to worry about. At all. We've planned every damned minute of this wedding. Christ, Sherlock…I've been living with you for years. Committing to you now is as easy as taking a breath. I loved you that first night. Just because the form of it has changed doesn't mean I won't accept you and your ways anymore. The only thing that changes now is that we've got to put these godforsaken rings on in the morning and our last names double."

"Easy for you to say," Sherlock mumbled, eyes locked on his blogger's.

John licked at his lips, took in a long exhale, and said, "I know you love me."

"A hundred percent?"

John chuckled. He bit at his lip. "Nobody could fake being so breath-taken all the time," he babbled effortlessly.

Sherlock snickered and leaned down to place his lips onto John's, but the doctor moved back at the last moment. "The ceremony," he explained, a bright, messy grin spreading about his mouth. Sherlock squeezed his hand instead. And waited. This, Sherlock, the great and everlasting Consulting Detective, could wait a lifetime for.

His lips twisted into a grin, eyes alight with a sea green fire, and said, "I love you, John Watson."

"I love you too, you big lug."


End file.
